Kindred of the Dust eBook

I

In the living-room of The Dreamerie, his home on Tyee
Head, Hector McKaye, owner of the Tyee Lumber Company
and familiarly known as “The Laird,” was
wont to sit in his hours of leisure, smoking and building
castles in Spain—­for his son Donald.
Here he planned the acquisition of more timber and
the installation of an electric-light plant to furnish
light, heat, and power to his own town of Port Agnew;
ever and anon he would gaze through the plate-glass
windows out to sea and watch for his ships to come
home. Whenever The Laird put his dreams behind
him, he always looked seaward. In the course of
time, his home-bound skippers, sighting the white
house on the headland and knowing that The Laird was
apt to be up there watching, formed the habit of doing
something that pleased their owner mightily. When
the northwest trades held steady and true, and while
the tide was still at the flood, they would scorn
the services of the tug that went out to meet them
and come ramping into the bight, all their white sails
set and the glory of the sun upon them; as they swept
past, far below The Laird, they would dip his house-flag—­a
burgee, scarlet-edged, with a fir tree embroidered
in green on a field of white—­the symbol
to the world that here was a McKaye ship. And
when the house-flag fluttered half-way to the deck
and climbed again to the masthead, the soul of Hector
McKaye would thrill.

“Guid lads! My bonny brave lads!”
he would murmur aloud, with just a touch of his parents’
accent, and press a button which discharged an ancient
brass cannon mounted at the edge of the cliff.
Whenever he saw one of his ships in the offing—­and
he could identify his ships as far as he could see
them—­he ordered the gardener to load this
cannon.

Presently the masters began to dip the house-flag
when outward bound, and discovered that, whether The
Laird sat at his desk in the mill office or watched
from the cliff, they drew an answering salute.

This was their hail and farewell.

One morning, the barkentine Hathor, towing out for
Delagoa Bay, dipped her house-flag, and the watch
at their stations bent their gaze upon the house on
the cliff. Long they waited but no answering salute
greeted the acknowledgment of their affectionate and
willing service.

The mate’s glance met the master’s.

“The old laird must be unwell, sir,” he
opined.

But the master shook his head.

“He was to have had dinner aboard with us last
night, but early in the afternoon he sent over word
that he’d like to be excused. He’s
sick at heart, poor man! Daney tells me he’s
heard the town gossip about young Donald.”

“The lad’s a gentleman, sir,” the
mate defended. “He’ll not disgrace
his people.”

“He’s young—­and youth must
be served. Man, I was young myself once—­and
Nan of the Sawdust Pile is not a woman a young man
would look at once and go his way.”